In Transit

1.13.07

Paris. Cool stoned skies match the paneled exteriors of stone buildings. The neon lights of shop windows belie a world of color and light and excitement to buy. It is SOLDES season, which means everything is on sale (and still unaffordable). What excites me are the rows of white hemmed windows above, their subdued hues, each a shadowed mystery disguised by uniformity, matching ironwork, and their tall view into the narrow street.

Once again, the busy airport. I feel as if I need to dive into every sight and smell and sound of this buying world. The perfume store lures me with its rows of glimmering bottles; the shopkeeper eyes my ragged backpack and flat shoes. I am a customer to watch not for my wallet but for my bull in a china shop allure. I take a deep whiff of Gualtier. I like the way the name rolls off my tongue when I whisper it to myself, the weighty assurance of gualt followed by a breathy and light eee- eh at the end; it comes in the bottle shaped like a woman and has a scent that makes me think of velvet nights and long, black gowns: something feminine and light without the sickly sweet fruit or vanilla that seems to characterize everything else. With no reason to buy such extravagance I spray it into my scarf and walk gently out of the store. I will carry this scent into the desert where it will be slowly erased by dust.

I admit it: I am basking in the extremes of this western world, giving myself to the simple, yet sometimes extravagant pleasures. Strolling the gardens of Rodin, licking Nuttella off my fingers, filling up on the rich scent of French perfumes, and loving the hot Vermont coffee steaming up to meet my lips. Part of me basks in this as if it were a guilty pleasure. Another part of me already feels disconnected from it, maybe always has. I am looking forward to the transition into a world where I am not faced daily by the names and brands and fashions whose sole purpose seem to be to make me feel like an outsider, like I always need more. I am happy with my secret scarf full of Gaultier and look forward to what happens when it mixes with the scent of fried dough and desert dust.